the rocks were a part of the building to which it served as foundation, for the stones had ended by assuming the same color, and it would have been difficult to discover the junction of man’s work and that of nature, had it not been outlined by a massive iron balcony running across the entire length of the first story, whence one could enjoy the pleasure of line-fishing.  Two round towers with pointed roofs stood at each corner of the facade and seemed to gaze with proud satisfaction at their own reflection in the water.

A long line of sycamore-trees skirted the banks of the river, beginning from the foot of the chateau, and forming the edge of a park which extended to the back of the double valley.  A little wooden bridge connected this sort of avenue with the road the traveller had just passed over; but the latter did not seem disposed to profit by this silent invitation to which large raindrops gave more emphasis.  He was so absorbed in his meditation that, to arouse him, it needed the sound of a gruff voice behind him uttering these words: 

“That is what I call an ugly castle!  It is hardly as good as our common country houses around Marseilles.”

The stranger turned quickly around and found himself face to face with a man wearing a gray cap and carrying his coat upon his shoulder, as workmen do in the South.  He held in his hand a knotty stick which had been recently cut.  The newcomer had a swarthy complexion, harsh features, and deep-set eyes which gave his face an ugly, false expression.

“I said an ugly castle,” continued he.  “However, the cage is made for the bird.”

“It seems, then, that you do not like its master?” said the traveller.

“The master!” repeated the workman, seizing hold of his stick with a threatening air, “Monsieur le Baron de Bergenheim, as they say!  He is rich and a nobleman, and I am only a poor carpenter.  Well, then, if you stay here a few days, you will witness a comical ceremony; I shall make this brigand repent.”

“Brigand!” exclaimed the stranger, in a surprised tone.  “What has he done to you?”

“Yes, brigand! you may tell him so from me.  But, by the way,” continued the workman, surveying his companion from head to foot with a searching, defiant air, “do you happen to be the carpenter who is coming from Strasbourg?  In that case, I have a few words to say to you.  Lambernier does not allow any one to take the bread out of his mouth in that way; do you understand?”

The young man seemed very little moved by this declaration.

“I am not a carpenter,” said he, smiling, “and I have no wish for your work.”

“Truly, you do not look as if you had pushed a plane very often.  It seems that in your business one does not spoil one’s hands.  You are a workman about as much as I am pope.”

This remark made the one to whom it was addressed feel in as bad a humor as an author does when he finds a grammatical error in one of his books.